


memento mori (the curious case of the baker on baker street)

by brosura



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (it's VERY temporary), (that's why), Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Shenanigans & Tomfoolery, Survivor Guilt, alcohol consumption, local baker raises dead solves murder finds a boyfriend, mentions of child neglect/abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 01:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brosura/pseuds/brosura
Summary: Ignis Scientia, young baker and private investigator’s assistant, has a peculiar gift. With a touch, he can bring the dead back to life, but only for a minute.Lately, he's been using this skill to ask murder victims to identify their killers and reap the cash rewards for turning them in. And for the most part, these schemes have run smoothly and without note. Nothing has come up that might have complicated things.Nothing yet.





	1. lighting an old flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello it is me with my first promnis! a pushing daisies au that no one asked for!
> 
> please enjoy!

The facts are these.

Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and four days old, full-time baker, part-time private investigator’s assistant and generally a reasonable, logical man - is about to make the most unreasonable, illogical decision of his short and uneventfully eventful life.

To understand his peculiar circumstances, the unfortunately fortunate series of events that brought him to this moment, one must start at the beginning.

* * *

The facts  _were_  these.

Ignis Scientia - despite the oddness of his name - grew up an ordinary, average boy.

He lived in an ordinary, average house in an ordinary, average neighborhood with an ordinary, average mother. The only things not ordinary or average about him were his intelligence (“above average” as his mother liked to boast) and his choice in friends.

Friend, rather. Singular.

Prompto was the only child his age on the block and by extension, his first and dearest friend.

And as far as young Ignis was concerned, he wasn’t ordinary or average in any way.

He called him ‘Iggy,’ had a penchant for running places and climbing things, and always wore a bright yellow chocobo print kerchief around his neck. Even brighter than his accessory was his laughter, his grin as he’d drag Ignis off to do mundane things masked as noble and fantastic adventures. Together, they’d crossed the ocean (waded across a little stream), befriended a talking wolf (pet the neighbor’s dog) and raced the wind (ran together down the street).

Ignis’ favorite of these adventures was when they’d climbed the beanstalk to Neverland (scaled a tree to sit on the upper branches in the light of the setting sun). The fact that Prompto had gotten his stories mixed up, that if this was a beanstalk they should logically be in a Giant’s castle, was inconsequential, what with the way the fading light illuminated Prompto’s blond hair. Ignis  _wished_ this was some fantasy land. He wished this moment would last forever.

He didn’t realize it at the moment, but this afternoon was the first scene of the story of his first love. And if Ignis was _truly_ an ordinary, average boy, then this first love might have grown into something bigger than the young, nervous thing it was.

Perhaps they could have grown into something more than friends, with all the ordinary, average hallmarks of a not ordinary, not average, exciting and wonderful relationship. Maybe they would have held hands longer than usual one day as teens, maybe they would have blushed. Maybe one day they would have kissed on the lips and become what people who kissed on the lips became.

Maybe.

But Ignis’ wish wasn’t granted. This wasn’t a fantasy land, and this moment had to end.

Because, after all, Ignis was less ordinary and average than he thought.

* * *

He found out how strange and extraordinary he truly was over the course of one strange and extraordinarily unfortunate night.

His mother called him in from a long day of play and they’d had a nice dinner full of light conversation before a blood vessel burst in her brain and she dropped dead on her plate.

Ignis was scared and confused, but his young brain knew what death was. His young brain didn’t know what to do in the face of it, though. So, little and  _alone_ , he did all he could think to do and touched her hand.

To his surprise, a jolt of electricity jumped between their skin and his mother sat upright, very much alive.

“Oh dear,” she’d said, wiping at the remnants of dinner that stuck to her face when she’d fallen in it. “I must have fallen asleep. Let’s get ourselves cleaned up, shall we? Your eyes are a little red, darling. Are you feeling ill? Why don’t we try to sleep early, hm?”

And so Ignis went through the night in a daze, not understanding what he’d done. He couldn’t have known what was to come.

He couldn’t have known that a minute, exactly a minute after he’d brought his mother back from the dead, Prompto’s father would take her place there. He couldn’t have known that when his mother touched him again - a kiss on the forehead to say goodnight, perhaps - there’d be another spark, like a circuit being closed, and she’d drop to the ground dead, never to be raised again.

But, unfortunately, ignorance was not bliss for young Ignis, and the fact that he couldn’t have known didn’t stop either of these things from happening.

If Ignis was an ordinary and average boy, then maybe the first time he and Prompto kissed would have been under happier circumstances. But reality found the both of them parentless and confused, found Ignis pressing his trembling lips to Prompto’s trembling forehead in a desperate attempt at comfort behind the big oak tree of the cemetery where both their parents were now buried.

That afternoon Prompto would move in with a family down the street with a last name starting with an A and Ignis’ father would send him off to boarding school.

By the time they’d said goodbye, Ignis thought he’d never see Prompto again, thought maybe he didn’t deserve to see him again.

See, it didn’t take long for him to put the pieces together, to see past the coincidence.

After all, he’d always had above average intelligence. And now, it seemed, he wasn’t average in any way at all.

* * *

The facts are these.

Ignis Scientia - now twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and three days old - has spent the better part of a decade forming as few personal attachments as possible, out of fear of what he would do when someone he loved died, out of fear of what he could do in general.

This fear had been useful in boarding school, where it had paired with his natural curiosity to ensure he’d meticulously studied the strength and range of his ability to raise the dead. The following were the fruits of his studies.

_One._  That he could raise the dead for sixty seconds, exactly, without consequence.

_Two._ That keeping anything alive past those sixty seconds would result in a nearby living being’s untimely death.

_Two, subset a._  That the exchange that takes place is roughly equivalent based on weight and category. (A reraised orchid only produced a dead house fern and a very tense experiment with the groundskeeper’s elderly cat yielded no dead humans, merely the demise of a particularly stubborn raccoon.)

_Two, subset b._ That a living thing raised by the one touch seemed to be particularly unaffected by what would be typically fatal processes. (The orchid survived a fatal fungal infection that killed all it’s brethren and to his knowledge, Sir Meow Meow lives happily to this day.)

_Three._  That a second touch would result in a permanent, unfixable death.

And  _Four._  Unexpectedly, that he had a confidant and friend in another student who seemed equally reluctant on forming personal attachments.

This friendship with a certain Noctis Lucis Caelum, son of Regis Lucis Caelum of Caelum Enterprises, would result in the bakery that he owns now, a little thing on the aptly named Baker street that Noctis had helped him set up across from the Caelum Enterprises branch in this town.

A bakery where all the fruits were always fresh and full of life, having only been touched the once. The flowers on the windowsill never seemed to survive for very long, though. Ignis’ fear of what he could do with a touch may have been enough to alienate him from most of his peers, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from finding some way to  _use_  his particular set of skills. Whether the thought occurred to him in a stroke of genius or bitterness, he doesn’t know himself.

Either way, he’s not just plumping strawberries for pies anymore.

After all, this is the same bakery that finds Iris coming in with a fresh box of flowers that she sets in the windowsill before taking a seat at her usual booth. Iris had first started coming in because she had a crush on Ignis, then because she had a crush on Noctis, and now because Ignis can’t manage to keep a single flower alive and one  _other_  reason.

“Hey, so Gladdy’s coming by today,” she says as she slides into her booth. She doesn’t need to order, Ignis already has her usual - an opera cake with a single candied strawberry, stolen from the top of a vanilla profiterole - ready when he sees her walk through the door. “Just thought you should know ahead of time. This case is getting a lot of press, so he’s been kind of cranky. You know how he hates competition.”

The one  _other_  reason Iris comes by the bakery is that they share an employer; her older brother - Gladiolus Amicitia, Private Investigator - is one of the only two people who are not Ignis that know Ignis’ secret.

He’d found out one unfortunate afternoon when a “perp” he’d been chasing had slipped off the roof of the building next to where Ignis Scientia, young baker and dead-raiser, was trying to take out the garbage. Said perp had died on impact, but he also happened to bounce and impact again with Ignis, young dead-raiser and baker, which lead to a mad scramble before the sixty seconds was up.

Since that day, Gladiolus Amicitia, Private Investigator, has made it a habit to pass by  _The Baker on Baker Street_ for a profiterole (sans one candied strawberry) and a consultation. That’s what they’d started calling it for the paperwork. Iris - who was in her second year at the local high school - was on the books as ‘secretary’ and Ignis - who could raise the dead - was listed as ‘consultant.’

After all, it’s a little gruesome, but the fastest way to solve a murder is to ask the victim. Ordinary, average people can’t do this, of course.

But Ignis Scientia, young consultant and dead-raiser, most certainly can.

So when there’s a case he can’t solve on his own, Gladiolus Amicitia, Private Investigator, comes to Ignis.

“Can’t solve this one on my own,” Gladio says, after coming to Ignis. He says this between messy bites of his profiterole, looking exhausted. “Gonna need your special touch.”

“I wish you’d stop calling it that,” Ignis grumbles. “It gives the whole ordeal a… dubious kind of flavor.”

“It’s a touch. It’s special.” Gladio sounds unimpressed. “I don’t know what else to call it.”

Ignis only rolls his eyes. “And how much is my rate this time?”

“Reward money is eighty thousand gil. Don’t mind going halfsies this time.”

Forty thousand gil, and gil in general, being the main reason why Ignis continues to act as consultant. He is, after all, a practical man. A practical man who owns a bakery in a town on the smaller side, which means there are only so many birthdays and even fewer weddings, and very few young people with disposable income willing to loiter around with a slice of pie and a cup of coffee.

So forty thousand gil will most certainly go a long way in keeping _The Baker on Baker Street,_  with all of its three regulars, afloat.

_“Halfsies,_  then,” Ignis repeats with an amused smirk.

“What? It’s not like you’ve never said ‘halfsies’ in your life,” Gladio says, shoving the rest of the profiterole into his mouth. “I have a kid sister that I spend a lot of time with, whatever. Which reminds me, dad and Iris want me home for dinner, so let’s do this thing tomorrow.”

“Dessert before dinner, I see.”

“You know what they say about snitches,” Gladio teases, pointing a finger purposefully at Ignis, as he gets up to move towards the door.

“They end up being poked by some poor, harassed baker because a certain private investigator has decided to stop upholding the illusion that he can investigate anything.”

“Ouch,” Gladio deadpans. “Well, can I count on you to meet me tomorrow? Gonna be at the funeral home this time.”

“The one with that ugly little man who steals from all those poor dead people, I’m assuming. You really know how to show someone a good time.”

“Hey, give a guy a break,” Gladio laughs, flipping the sign on the door to closed for Ignis. “This is a work function, isn’t supposed to be fun.”

“Well then, do be sure to  _dress like it_ this time.”

“Hey, I already told you: Iris was doing the laundry.”

“Yes,” Ignis says, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure that poor family that had to walk in on you, _shirtless,_ while mourning their deceased loved one thought that was a perfect and acceptable explanation.”

* * *

And here is where the story truly begins.

* * *

The facts were these.

Resting in the  _Fun in Funeral_  Funeral Home on the opposite side of town was one body now known by the recently popularized moniker,  _The Lonely Tourist._

He was young, a twenty-one-year-old man with a boyish, innocent face that was easy for the press to get attached to. He was also found dead in the ocean, the victim of an apparent but mysterious murder on a cruise ship bound to Altissia - a cruise ship that he was traveling on alone (hence the Lonely) - all of which made it even easier for the press to get attached to him.

So it shouldn’t have been possible for Ignis Scientia, now twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and four days old, to not have seen anything about him - not a picture, not a single word of his name - in the news.

And yet, somehow, that is exactly what happened.

So when Ignis and Gladio arrive and are ushered into the room of one Argentum, P., Ignis feels his world freeze at the familiar shade of blond peeking out from inside the open coffin as the pieces fall into place at once.

_Argentum, P._

_Prompto had moved into a family whose last name started with an A._

He feels himself inching closer, bit by bit, until he can see the face on the body, can see that this is Prompto, that this is  _his_  Prompto. It’s been a decade, and the freckles across the bridge of his nose have multiplied in that time, but he’s familiar enough to be recognizable. Familiar enough that Ignis remembers the sunset perched in the trees, the kiss he’d pressed to that trembling forehead behind the oak tree at the cemetery back home.

“Something wrong?” he hears Gladio say. “Oughtta hurry it up, funeral party’s gonna be taking him out soon.”

“I…” Ignis breathes. “I knew him.”

“Oh, oh  _shit,”_  Gladio hisses. “Shit, I’m sorry Ignis.”  

“It’s not your fault,” Ignis says, feeling distant from himself as he stares at the pale face of his first friend and first love. “You couldn’t have known. It’s been  _years,_ I thought-”

He cuts himself because he doesn’t know what he thought. He’d tried very hard not to think about Prompto, no matter how often the nostalgia crept in whenever he missed his mother and his friend and his home. He’d only wished that Prompto was  _safe._

It’s too much to wish for now.

“Ignis.” Gladio cuts through his grief with a firm hand on his shoulder. “We’re gonna catch the guy that did this. That’s why we’re here, right?”

“Right,” Ignis manages to say. “Of course.”

“Listen, I’m gonna leave you alone on this one, ok?” Gladio says. Despite the gruffness of his voice, Ignis can tell he’s trying to be gentle. “You say what you need to say, but don’t forget that we gotta bring whoever did this to justice. For  _his_  sake.”

“Right, of course. Thank you.”

The words come out of his mouth but it doesn’t feel like he’s saying them, more that mindless feeling from repeating those fancy phrases from all those etiquette classes he and Noctis used to sit through.

“I’ll be out here,” he hears Gladio say, one last time, before the door closes with a gentle click.

He has to take a few breaths before he feels ready to do it, has to remind himself to set the timer on his watch to sixty seconds.

He thinks, for a moment, about where to touch.

It had never really mattered for any of the other people, it was just whatever was the most convenient. The part of him that remembers the Prompto at sunset thinks  _the lips,_  but the part of him that remembers the Prompto behind the oak tree in the cemetery thinks  _the forehead where you kissed him_  and that is the part of him that wins. It’s fitting in a way, he thinks.

But he doesn’t have time to ponder as to why because as soon as his fingers make gentle contact with Prompto’s forehead he’s punched squarely in the stomach.

It’s a good, solid hit, and one that leaves him reeling long enough that Prompto has time to climb out of the coffin and arm himself with the nearest metal folding chair.

“Listen!” Prompto’s nearly yelling, his voice cracking because of both the fear and the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “Listen, I don’t know what you want, but-!”

“Prompto!” Ignis manages to groan. He’s keeping himself at a distance, not wanting to get hit again, but he’s got his arms up in a placating gesture. “Prompto, it’s just me!”

“Iggy?” Prompto says, his fearful expression turning into a shaky grin, tears welling up at the edges of his eyes. “Iggy, is that you?”

“It’s me,” Ignis says, smiling in spite of everything. It’s been so long since he’s heard Prompto’s voice, heard Prompto calling him  _Iggy._  “It’s me, Prompto.”

“Iggy, holy shit!” Prompto’s grin widens, and he drops the chair to swipe furiously at his eyes. “Holy shit, you’re so tall now! What are you even doing here?” he asks, then seems to realize where he is. Or, at the very least, that it is  _unfamiliar._ “What am I even doing here? Where am- Is that a  _coffin?”_

“Ah,” is all Ignis can think to say, because that is  _very much_  a coffin.

“Oh man, I’m dead, aren’t I?” Prompto drags a hand through his hair as he surveys the room with wide eyes. It doesn’t seem to be a question he wants answered, more something he needs to say to himself. “I thought it was a dream. So what is this? Am I like a ghost now? Wait, Ignis, are  _you_  a ghost? Dude, what happened to-?”

“You’re alive, Prompto,” Ignis interrupts, hands raised. He flinches and amends with, “For now, that is. I can, ah, I can bring back someone who’s dead by touching them.”

“You can?!” Prompto shouts before he can finish. “Is that new? That’s gotta be new!”

“It’s not new,” Ignis says around a laugh, in spite of everything. “But it’s, well. It’s a temporary arrangement, so to speak, so, ah-”

“It’s not permanent, I get it,” Prompto finishes. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t feel right. His eyes shine too brightly. “I’m alive, but I’m not supposed to be, I get it. So, uh, how long do I have?”

“Until I touch you again, in… twenty-five seconds. Then there’s no waking you, ever,” Ignis sighs. “Prompto, I wish it didn’t have to be like this, but please, do you know who did this to you?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” and he really does look sorry. As if he’s somehow to blame for this. “It all happened so fast! And someone put a plastic bag over my head? I really don’t know.”

“That’s alright, it’s fine, Prompto,” Ignis reassures. He wants to touch him, to comfort him, but he’s afraid of what will happen. He’s still not ready. “I promise you, I’ll bring them to justice.”

“That’s cool and all, but don’t push yourself, Iggy.” Prompto smiles again, but it’s all wrong now, it feels like a lie. “And thanks. I, um, I’m happy to see you again, even if it was only for a little. I’m glad that this time the last thing I see is going to be you.”

Ignis only nods. He doesn’t trust himself with words.

“So, uh, can I pick where you touch me this time?” Prompto laughs, sheepish, as he approaches Ignis. “‘Cause you know I wondered from time to time, after dad’s funeral, what a k-kiss from you would be like. Like a real one. So, like, not to pressure you or anything and you can say no, but wanna be my last kiss?”

Ignis laughs. The watch ticks away on his wrist. Five seconds. “I’d be honored.”

And that is how the final chapter of Prompto’s life is supposed to end.

But it doesn’t, because this is the precise moment that Ignis - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and four days old, full-time baker, part-time private investigator’s assistant and generally a reasonable, logical man - makes the most unreasonable, illogical decision of his short and uneventfully eventful life.

He has three seconds as he leans in to kiss Prompto - hands folded behind his back because he has already decided what he wants, whether he knows it or not - and he uses them to hesitate. It’s only a moment, it should have been inconsequential, but he imagines a world where Prompto is alive and happy. Imagines that something as selfish as choosing Prompto over some stranger wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

It’s such a short fantasy, but it’s long enough that his three seconds are up, and the timer on his watch goes off in a series of shrill beeps.

The two of them jump apart at the noise, and Ignis feels his heart drop and jump all at once. A deep and fearful guilt, then a contradictory kind of relief. The sixty seconds were up. Someone would be dead by now anyway.

He doesn’t have to touch Prompto again.

Prompto can stay with him. Prompto can _live_  again.

“On second thought,” he starts. Prompto blinks at him in confusion. “Want to try your hand at playing dead?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "oh, woops" - Ignis Scientia
> 
> anyway, let me know how y'all liked that! just a heads up this fic is actually pretty much done and i'm just crossposting from tumblr, so I'll probably have the whole thing posted by sunday!
> 
> head on over to [me tumblr](http://brosura.tumblr.com/) to spoil the plot for yourself or [send me a little yell](http://brosura.tumblr.com/ask)!
> 
> thanks for the read!


	2. coming back from the farm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sports announcer voice: so prompto, you've just come back from the dead! what will you do now?  
> prompto, at a drive through window: can i get uuhhhhhhhHhhHHhHHHhh fuckin'

The facts were these.

Sixty seconds, exactly, after Ignis presses his fingers against Prompto’s forehead, a certain unnamed Funeral Director with a pair of sticky fingers dies of a heart attack in the middle of sorting his haul at sixty-two years, eight months and five days.

Of course, Ignis couldn’t have known that he’d traded sticky fingers for Prompto, in the grand scheme of things, so the first thing that jumps into his head once he’s finished carefully helping Prompto back into the coffin and shutting the lid, the first terrifying thought he has is “Gladio!”

Gladio just blinks in mild confusion at Ignis, who - from his perspective - has just thrown open the door for no apparent reason. He blinks again as Ignis sighs, relieved that - from his perspective - he hadn’t accidentally made Iris an only child. Well, less than accidentally. “You ok, Ignis?”

“Y-yes, yes of course,” Ignis says, straightening himself out the best he can in preparation for this unexpected lie. “He, ah, he didn’t see who killed him. But he was strangled with a plastic bag, I don’t know if that helps.”

“Damn,” Gladio hisses. He’s not as visibly upset as he usually is when one of their dead turns out to be a dead end, so to speak, but Ignis can guess that’s for his sake. “I was really hoping for a lead on this one. Well, thanks again, Ignis. You want me to drive you back to the bakery?”

“Thank you, but I’d, ah,” Ignis swallows. He was never good at lying, but luckily he’d been overwhelmed enough before that Gladio will probably attribute this to emotion. “I’d like to attend his funeral, I think.”

Gladio gives him a look that he recognizes as pity for a brief moment, then he just nods. “‘Course. You do what you need to do. Want me to keep you updated?”

“That would be nice,” he says before he can realize that that is most definitely a mistake, that he has just created a situation where he would have to continue lying about the fact that Prompto is very much alive.

“Alright, then.” Gladio pats him on the shoulder. Had Prompto actually been dead, he supposes he would have found this comforting. “See you later.”

“Very well.” Ignis manages to say with a stiff nod as Gladio steps around him to leave the funeral home.

He waits awkwardly by the window until Gladio leaves, then rushes back inside the room where he’d left Prompto only to find the coffin  _gone._

It’s a mess of an affair, tailing the hearse behind a strangely sparse funeral procession, then waiting awkwardly amongst the mourners (a few genuine, namely an old man and a tall girl with short blonde curls who looked too forlorn to be lying, and a few who were clearly journalists) until the crowd had dispersed enough that he felt comfortable enacting the second part of his poorly developed plan.

Which, to put it casually, involved property damage.

It isn’t until he’s squirreled Prompto safely away from the coffin in the grave and the quickly-concocted distraction that was the burning car of the groundskeepers that his heart starts to calm itself.

It doesn’t have long, though, because he scarcely has time to mention that they should ditch Prompto’s suit from the wake before he’s pulling the thing off.

“Ah,” Ignis stutters. “Er-”

“Oh  _man!”_  Prompto interrupts, craning his neck to get a good look at the suit jacket he’s pulling off a shoulder. “Is this my suit from high school prom? I was almost _buried_  in this? How  _embarrassing!”_

“Well, I think you look lovely,” Ignis says offhandedly before he can think about it. It’s enough to make the both of them freeze, and Ignis finds it suddenly much more difficult to meet his eyes.

“Right, um, well,” Prompto starts. He clears his throat. “Don’t suppose you brought a change of pants?”

“Unfortunately, no. To be fair, I didn’t exactly plan to exhume a corpse today.”

“Well, I guess we can’t plan for everything,” Prompto says, and continues the task of undressing himself. He’s on the third button of his dress shirt when he pauses, blinking at Ignis. “No offense, dude, but you watching me is kind of weird.”

“A-ah, right of course, I’ll-” Ignis swivels himself around in lieu of an end to that statement. He clears his throat to drown out the soft sounds of Prompto working at his clothes. “So, ah, high school prom. Who was your lucky partner?”

“Er, no one. Well,  _someone._  But it turned out to be a prank.” Ignis frowns, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that troubling information before Prompto asks, “I know you probably don’t know what they look like, but were my parents at the funeral?”

“I’m not sure,” Ignis admits with regret. He honestly hadn’t been focusing so much on the guests, he was rather more concerned with the fact that Prompto may very well have been buried alive if he hadn’t been quick on his feet (and good at starting fires).

“Guess it’s too much to hope for,” Prompto sighs and there’s the shuffling of clothes.

Then Prompto appears from his periphery, clothed only in the black slacks and a thin, white shirt. He looks smaller without the trappings of a suit, more human with the way his hair is mussed from undressing. He also looks cold, arms crossed over his chest in clear discomfort.

“Ah, it’s rather chilly,” Ignis comments casually as he shrugs off his own simple gray cardigan, tossing it to Prompto, who catches it with a surprised look on his face. “You can borrow that. At least, until we can find you more suitable clothes.”

“O-oh, ok,” Prompto stutters, but he’s carefully pulling on the cardigan anyway. It’s too big for him, barely fits at the shoulders and the sleeves go past his wrists, but he looks more comfortable. Definitely warmer, if the flush on his neck is any indication. “This is fine.”

“So,” Ignis starts, eager to change the subject. “Consider yourself a free man. Now, what do you want to do?”

Prompto’s grin is so bright it rivals the sun.

* * *

“Y’know,” Prompto says around a mouthful of a cheeseburger. 

He’s in the passenger seat of Ignis’ car, which they had picked up along with a change of clothes on the way to the Cheesy Shack. 

It’s a combination of ridiculous and endearing, the sight of him curled up around a bag of junk food in a pair of too-big sweatpants and a loose tank top, still wearing that loose-fitting cardigan. Dark sunglasses obscure his eyes. He was a dead man, after all. Can’t give the poor teen working the drive-through window a scare. 

“Being dead really makes you stop and appreciate the value of junk food. Like, when I was alive? It was always ‘don’t eat the cheeseburger, Prompto’ or ‘that’s too much food, Prompto.’ But then I didn’t even make it to  _twenty-two!_  Some dude strangled me to death on a  _cruise ship!”_  He winces. “Too soon?”

“You’re the one who died,” Ignis offers, sipping at his own ‘Mocha Jivin’” milkshake which he held one gloved hand, the other draped over the steering wheel as they make their way slowly to Noctis’ building. The gloves, naturally, being a precaution. He’s never losing someone to carelessness ever again. And Prompto seemed…averse to wearing sleeves. “I’d say you get the final word on whether or not it’s too soon to discuss the circumstances of your death.”

“Well, I say it’s not too soon,” Prompto says. “Weird to be on eggshells about it, especially since you’re the one who brought me back. Like you literally saw my dead body, gave me a little poke and boop! Here I am. How _do_  you do that, by the way?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know,” he admits. It’s not a lie. For all he knows about his powers, there’s a garbage bin full of dead plants and things he doesn’t. “It’s, ah, not a thing I care to dwell on.”

“Oh,” Prompto tilts his head. “Too soon?”

Ignis snorts as he pulls into the driveway of Noct’s apartment building, sending a quick text for him to open the garage. “Something like that.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to walk on eggshells, then.” Prompto gives him a grin. “Anyway, not like me to  _look a gift horse in the mouth,_ or whatever.” He switches to a southern drawl midway and seems to surprise himself. “Er, sorry, old habit.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Ignis says with a raised eyebrow and Prompto just shrugs in response. “It’d be good of you to look the gift horse in the mouth just enough to avoid touching me, though.”

“Oh, right! Bummer,” Prompto blurts, then flushes in his seat. “A-any other rules I gotta worry about?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, just what’s common sense for being raised from the dead.”

“Right! No appearing on the porches of my loved ones, no introducing myself by name. Got it!”

“There you are. You’re a natural,” Ignis says with a fond smile.

Prompto gives him a small one in return and it’s a short, quiet moment. But it’s the first one they have where they’re not frantically catching up on lost time or feeling like they’re living in a world made of frozen glass that’s liable to shatter at any moment.

It’s the first moment they have to just be in each other’s presence.

“I really missed you,” Ignis admits, because it feels right and because he thought he might never get the chance, the  _privilege_ to say it.

“Me, too,” Prompto says, and they settle into a short but comfortable silence.

If Ignis was an ordinary and average young man, this might have been the sort of scene that ended in a kiss, tentative and shy. But instead, they can only look at each other, read the warmth and longing in their matching small smiles, and imagine.

Then they jump at the sound of knuckles rapping gently against the passenger side window.

“Garage is open,” Noctis drawls, groggy, when Ignis rolls the window down. Ignis knows Noctis well enough that he’s not surprised he’s in pajamas. In fact, he’d anticipated it, and made a quick call ahead to make sure Noctis was awake from his afternoon nap. He also knows Noctis well enough that he can see the recognition in his eyes the moment after his grogginess subsides and he notices Prompto in the passenger’s seat. “Oh shit, you’re-”

“I-I-I’m,” Prompto stutters, eyes wide with panic. “I mean, er, my name is. Pronto? Aurum?”

“Prompto.” Ignis can’t help but laugh. “It’s alright, he knows about me. He’s a friend.”

“Oh, thank god,” he wheezes. “I know we just established the ground rules but I wasn’t like,  _ready.”_

“Well, you did great,” Noctis reassures, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m Noctis.”

“I’m Prompto!” he says with a cheerful grin. “Y’know, like the dead guy.”

“Pretty common name, huh,” Noctis says with a lazy smirk of his own. Then he blinks at the bags in Prompto’s lap. “One of those for me?”

“Please, give me some credit,” Ignis answers for Prompto. It seemed the people he cared about the most all had a similar taste in junk food. “Two of them are for you. Mind if we come in?”

“Yeah,” Noctis says with a yawn. “Yeah, I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

* * *

The facts were these.

Noctis Lucis Caelum, twenty-one years old, is indisputably Ignis’ closest friend.

He’s proudly guarded this position for nearly ten years, and for ten years, he has been one of the most grounding presences in Ignis’ life. In fact, Ignis had only managed to start accepting his powers as part of himself due to Noct’s intervention.

He’d been content to isolate himself completely until Noctis - lonely and eager to befriend someone who was so hesitant to befriend anyone at all, since so many of their peers wanted his attention for the opportunities his charmed life brought - had wormed his way into Ignis’ very small circle of trust and convinced him that maybe his curse didn’t have to be such a curse. That he could take some of the power back with understanding until it became a mundane and inconvenient thing on most days and a source of fear and anxiety on only  _some_  days. Noctis had made for a very good lab assistant and then, over time, a very good friend.

They’d been an odd pair, to be sure - the shy heir and the bookish nobody - but they’d been just that: a pair, a set of friends with a relationship built on mutual and often unconditional trust and support.

But he couldn’t ask Noctis for his unconditional support this time. Noctis knew how his powers worked, after all. Knew what keeping a human alive past the sixty seconds meant.

So he starts to get nervous in the elevator as Noctis, who seems to have woken up a bit more in the time it had taken for Ignis to park the car, gets a knowing look on his face as he gives Prompto a cursory once-over.

He doesn’t say anything other than standard small talk until they’re in the apartment, though.

Then he opens with, “Hey Prompto, you shower yet?” 

Diplomatic, subtle, speaking on the level of the audience. He’d learned well from boarding school.

“Uh, no?” Prompto tilts his head, then sniffs himself. “Oh man, no I have not. They sure went heavy on the cologne.”

“You can use mine,” he offers, opening the door to his bedroom preemptively. Diplomatic, subtle, hinting at no ulterior motives. He’d learned  _very_ well from boarding school. “Right knob is water level, left knob is temperature. Towels are on top of the sink. Also, you can borrow a change of clothes from my closet. We’re closer in size, I think.”

“Are you sure?” Prompto hesitates at the doorway, but he seems eager at the prospect now that he’s smelled himself.

“Totally,” Noctis shrugs. “Just don’t touch the suits. I go to work in those.”

“Trust me, you could not  _make me_ get back in a suit after today,” Prompto starts, but it gets harder and harder to hear him as he retreats into Noct’s room.

The next few moments are spent treading on eggshells. Noctis gives him a tired smile as he pours them both coffee in complete silence and it’s not until they can hear the shower running that he finally speaks.

“So,” he starts, taking a seat across from Ignis, who’s slouched at the kitchen table. He slides him a mug of coffee that Ignis gratefully accepts. “Do you know who it is?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” Ignis says with a shuddering sigh, feeling the weight of the death he’d caused finally setting in. Noct’s expression remains neutral, but Ignis can tell he’s carefully reading Ignis’ expression. He’d feel judged, but he deserves this. At the very least, he’s relieved to finally tell someone. “It isn’t Gladio, at least. And I haven’t had much time to dwell on it, either. It was, ah, I wasn’t at my finest. It’s been a long day.”

Noctis studies him for a moment, then his brows furrow in a combination of concern and pity. 

“Oh yeah,” he says, voice gentle. “He’s _that_ Prompto, right?”

“The Lonely Tourist, yes.”

“No, I mean, he’s  _that_  Prompto,” Noctis gives him a meaningful look. “The one you used to talk about in boarding school.”

“A-ah, yes.”

If it were up to Ignis, he’d happily trade his dead-raising for the ability to go back in time. He’d have less metaphorical blood on his hands, to be sure. Mainly, though, he wouldn’t have to deal with the look Noctis is giving him right now, in this moment, if he could just tell his child self to stop talking about Prompto with such frequency and fervor to his new and very nosy friend.

“Hmm,” Noctis hums, with a sly look on his face. “I can see you’re still invested.”

Ignis crosses his arms. This isn’t good, he’s already on the defensive. His debate professor would be very disappointed. “And what are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. Just, think I get it now,” Noctis says, but his smirk widens. “He’s cute. Energetic. Good for a downer like you.”

“That’s awfully rude.” He snorts. “And to think, I spent your twenty-first birthday gallivanting about town, witnessing things that should not be repeated, only to be called a downer.”

“Hey, don’t make me pull a gag order on you,” Noctis says without any vitriol. Then he switches abruptly back to that gentle tone when he continues with, “So, Prompto. He’s up now, and for the long run I’m guessing. What do you need me to do?”

“For now, could he stay here?” Ignis says, fiddling with the mug in his hands. He feels guilty involving Noctis in this, but he doesn’t see there being any other option. “Gladio might come by my flat later and he knows what Prompto looks like. And I, ah, I need to focus.”

“Got it,” Noctis says with an adamant little nod that lets Ignis know he can trust him with this. “Want me to bring him by the bakery later?”

“It’s up to you.”

“Hm, I guess that depends on if I get a free tart.”

“Two free tarts,” Ignis says with a smirk. “For your troubles.”

Noctis gives him another of those sly smiles. “I’ll wait for the all-clear, then. And I’m gonna eat this cheeseburger.”

And they’re off the eggshells the moment Noctis starts stuffing his face with the thing.

Ignis has seen death, has seen the many forms it takes but he’ll never quite overcome the horror that was watching Noctis eat a cheeseburger.

At any rate, their conversation treads back onto their more frequented avenues by the time Prompto steps out in a pair of black sweatpants and a yellow shirt with a moogle riding a chocobo printed to the front. It’s quite the look to find charming, but that’s all Ignis can think, all he can focus on as Prompto dries at his ears with the towel draped around his shoulders, making some comment about how nice hot water was.

“Yeah, hot water’s great!” Noctis says, loudly in an effort to snap Ignis out of the daydream he’d been spiraling into. What did he do to deserve a friend like Noctis.

“Y-yes,” Ignis says, clearing his throat. “Right, er, Prompto. You’ll be staying with Noctis for the time being. I have to get back to work, but will you be alright?”

“Yeah, I can manage,” Prompto says with a grin, but it seems tight and tense.

He’s worried, for a moment, that Prompto will be uncomfortable with Noctis. But then Prompto takes one long look at Noct’s entertainment center and heaves a delighted sob.

“Holy shit, you have every console  _imaginable!”_  he cries, hovering near the display, his body trembling in tangible excitement. “Is that the Swap? I’ve been saving up for that for _ages!”_

“That’s the Swap,” Noctis practically purrs, he’s clearly very proud of his set-up. “One of the perks of knowing a guy who knows a guy.” Prompto gives him a look that’s such open want and excitement that Ignis can see the moment it rubs off onto Noctis, who looks very much like the boy he’d met in boarding school when he continues with, “Want to play?”

“Yeah! Hell yeah!”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Ignis tries to say, but it’s in vain, because both Prompto and Noctis are already ignoring him in favor of babbling over the contraption.

Noctis doesn’t even walk him to the door, simply gives him a half-wave.

Now, what  _did_  he do to deserve a friend like Noctis.

* * *

All things considered, he’s had a very productive day.

Despite having the bakery closed for the majority of its open hours, he’s managed to sell the more delicate pastries off and has Noct’s tarts set aside and his next batch primed for the ovens tomorrow by the time Gladio comes through the door around closing, wordlessly flipping the sign in the window to closed.

He’s got a bottle of liquor in his hand and Ignis doesn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. Gladio, from what Ignis has experienced, is quite the drinker.

“Hey, Iggy,” Gladio greets, gentler than usual. “How’s it going?”

“Better,” he admits, because at least he doesn’t have to lie about that. He’s still anxious about who died in Prompto’s place, and he’s still nervous about what the future holds for them both, but he’s better. He’s never been better.

“That’s good, wanna have a couple of drinks?”

Ignis merely nods.

His acting is, to put it delicately,  _shit._ One unfortunate school play that Noctis has on VHS recording for collateral is testament enough to that. But he has a somber expression most days, so at least silence can play to his benefit.

Gladio steps comfortably into the kitchen, pulling out a set of cups as Ignis washes his hands and subtly texts Noctis that he should stay away from the bakery. Gladio pours a clear brown liquid into a set of glasses in what he probably imagines is a somber silence for the dead, and not the moment of fear and anxiety that it actually is for Ignis. They take their first drinks in the same silence, and Ignis feels himself relaxing ever so slightly as the liquor burns its way to his gut.

He’s not usually one to drink, but he finds himself glad he’s doing so when Gladio offhandedly says, “Heard that that mean old funeral director croaked this afternoon. Weird coincidence, huh?”

But Ignis doesn’t hear anything after _“that mean old funeral director croaked this afternoon”_ because he’s coughing up his liquor. For a brief, terrifying moment as he hacks up half a lung and about a shot of whiskey, he thinks that Gladio’s guessed his game. That bringing up the funeral director was an accusation and not small talk.

He’s relieved to find that Gladio seems to only think that he’s coughing because of the liquor, though, and that he doesn’t seem to have that calculating look on as he pats Ignis’ back. “Sorry. Still a sore subject?”

“Not, ah,” he chokes on the sting of the whiskey as it makes its way back up his throat. “Not particularly.”

“That’s good,” Gladio says. Then he switches into that tone that he uses on a victim Ignis has just raised, and Ignis feels his anxiety raise in turn when Gladio continues with, “‘Cause I was hoping to hear more about him, that Prompto guy.”

“I’m afraid-,” Ignis swallows.  _Yes, he is afraid._ “I’m afraid I don’t know how much I can say. It’s been years since I’d seen him last, and we were only children then.”

“You sure?” Gladio prods. “Even a little detail works. ‘Cause I could really use anything at this point.”

Ignis  _could_ tell him all the things he’s learned about Prompto in their short time together, all the things that came rushing out when they’d walked to Ignis’ apartment.

He could tell Gladio that Prompto’s persevered through what Ignis can only perceive as a lonely childhood, that he’s bright and cheerful and yet talks about himself as if he deserves the scant few friends and lack of parental attention he regularly alludes to, that he loves taking photos and he’s eager to travel again, in spite of being killed for it the once. That he looks very charming in a pair of sweats and a ridiculous t-shirt.

But none of this would be helpful, and all of this would be incriminating, so he says, “I really can’t say.”

Gladio sighs in disappointment, and it’s heavy and genuine enough that even while Ignis is skirting the edge of drunkenness, he can tell that Gladio’s only hope tonight was to squeeze some detail about Prompto’s life and death out of him. He lets himself relax and take another drink of the whiskey.

“Man, with how beat up you were about him, figured you might have been close or something,” Gladio mumbles. “I mean, you were  _real_ beat up. And you recognized him on sight…”

It’s just a series of observations, a habit Ignis is accustomed to. Gladio is a private detective, but he’s no spy, so Ignis has sat quietly as Gladio mumbled his way through a case on more than one occasion. If he cared more, he could jot down notes and steal Gladio’s cases right from under him. But he’s a baker by practice, a consultant by necessity. And he couldn’t hurt Iris’ feeling’s like that.

What he’s not anticipating is for Gladio’s mumbling to trail off until there’s a smirk on his lips and Ignis finds himself nervous in a new set of ways. “So, what was he? First crush?”

“I-I’m not sure what you’re-” Ignis sputters, but he’s not doing a fine job of denying it. And gods, he wishes he wasn’t such an easy read, because Gladio’s smirk is growing more insufferable by the second.

“Knew it,” he teases, and tips back another sip of the whiskey. “Trying to picture you as a kid with a crush, but it’s hard. You’re so stuffy sometimes.”

“We were all young once,” Ignis says, simply. “Though you’d be right to assume I was rather… _stuffy_  as a child as well. Prompto managed to see through that, though. He is, er, he  _was_  a very kind and bright boy.”

“Sounds like a good guy.” Gladio takes another sip of the whiskey, but he’s back to that somber tone when he sets it down. “Kind of strange, though, you know? When you’re a kid, there are all these people that mean so much to you at one moment that completely leave your life in the next, and you have no idea why. You can only hope you’ll remember them in a few years, and that they’re remembering you, too.”

“Isn’t that just what it’s like to have people you care about?” Ignis says quietly as he fills up their cups.

“Huh,” Gladio grunts. “Guess that’s just what it’s like.”

They both have someone of their own in mind as they take a long drink from their glasses.

* * *

The facts are these.

Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and four days old, full-time baker, part-time private investigator’s assistant and responsible party to a revival/murder - is much, much drunker than he intended to be.

He and Gladio, despite the premise of their meeting being founded on a complete lie, have been more honest and forthcoming with each other than they’ve ever been, in no small part due to the entire two bottles of alcohol. He’s learned a lot of things about Gladio, like that he’s been taking on so many cases lately because he’s getting more and more anxious about paying for Iris’ college education, that he cooks most of the family dinners, and that he’s very, very good at eating pie with nothing but his bare hands. Or, at least, much better at eating pie with his bare hands than Ignis is.

Either way, they’re both two hands deep in a pie each, a predicament that explains why Ignis doesn’t receive a critical text message that might have prepared him for what happens next.

What happens next being Prompto himself kicking the door open - it was such a small town that Ignis rarely locked it - tailed by a very anxious Noctis.

They’re both clearly in pajamas and it would be ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that Prompto is shaking, eyes shining with moisture as he rounds on Ignis.

“You  _knew!_ That’s what the beeping was!” Prompto says. He might be shouting, he looks upset enough to be shouting and that’s definitely worrying, but at the moment Ignis’ ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton, and all he can focus on is the fact that Prompto’s still wearing his old gray cardigan. “Who was it?!”

“Sorry,” Noctis says, looking guilty. His eyes dart between Prompto and Ignis with a nervous energy. “I thought you told him how your powers worked.”

 _“Don’t_ apologize, Noct,” Prompto barks over his shoulder, then returns to poking a finger at Ignis’ chest.  _“You’re_  the one who needs to apologize! So, who was it?! Who died for me?!”

Ignis doesn’t get a chance to answer, though, because beside him Gladio is making a confused grumble as he squints at Prompto.

“Yeah, Ignis?” he grates out, hands still coated in the purple filling of a blueberry pie as he brings one to rub at his forehead. “Is that our fucking victim?”

Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and four days old, full-time baker, part-time private investigator’s assistant and known responsible party to a revival/murder - wishes he could drink more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, W-WoOPS?! - Ignis Scientia
> 
> as usual, leave me a comment or [give me a little yell](http://brosura.tumblr.com/ask) on [me tumblr](http://brosura.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> thanks for the read! see you in a few hours probably lmao


	3. take back the ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on this episode:
> 
> ignis: i've only had Basil for one afternoon, but if anything happened to her, i'd kill everyone in this room and then myself

The facts are these.

Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and five days old, off-duty baker, on-duty private investigator’s assistant and on-call mistake-maker - has many, many regrets.

They’re numerous and indiscriminate. He regrets drinking so much. He regrets not checking his text messages, a set of 20, all from Noctis, all announcing his arrival to the bakery. He regrets lying to Gladio. He regrets lying to Prompto. He regrets that spur of the moment decision that had lead to the death of a mean and greedy but otherwise healthy funeral director.

Well, he can’t say he particularly regrets that last one, as selfish as it makes him feel. Not when Prompto, young and full of life, is across from him, reading the obituary Gladio has pulled up on his phone from over his shoulder. Noctis, in all his kindness, has poured them all some coffee in spite of the lateness of the hour and Ignis nurses the cup with an anxious energy as Prompto squints hard at the screen between rubbing away the tears from his eyes with one of the sleeves of Ignis’ cardigan.

“So, like, how does it work?” Gladio drawls. He’s drunk but sobering quickly, and there’s still a smear of the blueberry pie on his forehead. “How does your power pick who dies?”

“Sixty-two years old…” Prompto mumbles.

“I’m not sure,” Ignis says. His mouth feels dry. “So far it seemed most reliant on proximity.”

“Proximity?” Gladio runs a hand through his hair, smearing a little more blueberry through it. “Like, the proximity that _I_  was in?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Ignis can only say in answer. “I’m not proud.”

“Survived by…” Prompto chokes. “You’re fucking kidding me, survived by his  _two-year-old pomeranian?!_  Ignis, what the fuck?”

“I said I wasn’t proud,” Ignis sighs. “I’m- I don’t know how to apologize for putting you through this, Prompto. I don’t know if I can.”

The table falls quiet for a moment, a brief, but heavy moment where Ignis can’t focus on anything but the trembling of Prompto’s shoulders as he stares intently at Gladio’s screen, refusing to make eye contact. Noct’s knee bumps his gently under the table, clearly an effort at comfort, but it’s one he doesn’t deserve.

“Well,” Gladio breaks the silence before Ignis’ thoughts can get too dangerous. “Considering how things  _could_ have gone, I’d say things turned out just fine!”

“Fine?!” Prompto grimaces. “A dude is dead because of me! How is that fine?”

“Well, first things first. He’s dead because of  _Ignis,”_ Gladio says, matter-of-factly, with a gesture to Ignis across the table. “You didn’t ask to die and you didn’t ask to undie, so you’re not even  _kind of_  a guilty party here. Now, take a good look at the outcome.  _I’m_  not dead, which is great. _You’re_  not dead, which- well, I don’t know you, but you seem like a good guy- so that’s great. That funeral director’s dead, which isn’t so great, but he was kind of an asshole.”

“He was still a  _person,”_  Prompto insists, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah, but I’m just saying. Out of all the possible outcomes, we’ve somehow landed in the one with the least net shittiness. I say we just accept it and move on.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it at this point, anyway,” Noctis continues, tone gentle. He gives Prompto a tentative smile when Prompto’s eyes flick up to meet his. “Ignis can’t control who dies, so even if he did raise that funeral director, there’s no guarantee it’d be _you_ that died in his place and not someone else. I think I’m with Gladio on this one.”

Prompto frowns, teeth coming out to tease at his bottom lip. With mounting horror, Ignis realizes that he’s  _blaming_  himself for this. And not only that, there’s something familiar about the crease of his brow, the way he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“Prompto, could I get a word?” he says.

Prompto doesn’t say a thing, but follows him easily to the kitchen where he hunches next to a fridge, eyes downcast.

“Prompto,” he starts. He hates the way Prompto flinches at the sound of his name. “I made a mistake. And I’m not proud to admit that I don’t regret it as much as I should. But it was  _my_ mistake, you needn’t blame yourself.”

“Lot of people been telling me that tonight,” Prompto says around a bitter laugh. He taps the fridge with his heel. “Maybe I’ll believe it one day.”

Ignis sighs. “Listen, Prompto. There’s something else I wanted to tell you. You don’t have to forgive me, you can never speak to me again if that’s what you want, but please,  _please,_  stop acting like we’d all be better off if you were still dead.”

Prompto bites his lip, the skin going white around where he’s clamping down, and Ignis knows he’s hit the mark. “How did you-?”

“It’s not an unfamiliar feeling,” Ignis says with a sad smile as Prompto hesitantly meets his eyes. “And, I can say with certainty it’s the furthest thing from the truth. You’re no burden. As untraditional as it might have been for you to come back like this, no one here hates you for being alive.”

Then Prompto’s blinking, and blinking, and rolling his eyes in a clear effort to keep the tears from falling. He clears his throat, muttering what sounds like a curse under his breath, then leans back hard on the fridge, tapping it a few times with his heel again.

“H-hey Ignis?” he finally says, voice rough with emotion. “Could you do me a favor and leave me alone for a minute?”

“Prompto-”

“You  _said,”_ Prompto interrupts. “You said if I wanted, I didn’t have to talk to you. Well, I don’t want to talk to you right now. J-just- I just need to be alone for a minute.  _Please.”_

Ignis hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave Prompto like this, but he thinks if he ignores Prompto’s request he’ll damage something between them beyond repair. After a long moment, Ignis gives Prompto a little nod and leaves him standing there in the dark of the kitchen, alone.

He hopes this doesn’t become one of his regrets.

* * *

“Not great, huh,” is the first thing Gladio says as Ignis sits heavily back at their table. Then he goes back to eating his pie.

“You did what you could,” Noctis says, splaying a warm hand on his back.

“Did I?”

Noctis gives him a half-smile, half-grimace. “Well, you could have done better. Want me to check on him?”

Ignis just shakes his head and follows Gladio’s lead. They all sit in that silence for a long time, one that’s not so awkward, not so miserable, not so drunk. The companionable silence of three people who are all in different places, but can all enjoy the light, fruity flavor of a good slice of pie.

Ignis isn’t quite sure how long that silence lasts, but it’s broken abruptly and all at once by Prompto dropping a large metal bowl full of profiterole filling on the table. He slides into the booth on the tail end of the sound, bumping into Gladio on accident. He has the look of someone who’s been crying, eyes rimmed by red around the edges, but he doesn’t look quite so miserable as he shoves a spoonful of the vanilla custard into his mouth.

“Alright you guys,” he says, muffled around the mouthful of custard. “Here’s the plan.”

Gladio snorts, stealing some of the custard from the bowl with the tip of his finger. “I like this kid.”  

“Ignis,” he says, and Ignis is so surprised that Prompto’s speaking directly to him so soon that he jumps at the sound. “You brought me back to get information, right? Is there like, a bounty or something? For catching my killer?”

“Eighty thousand gil,” Gladio answers for him, and even though he’s still drunk his posture changes. He leans forward on both elbows, clasping his hands together, and turns his head to face Prompto directly. Even alcohol can’t stop him from conducting business, it seems. “That’s my case, though. You discuss the terms with me.”

Prompto flinches at being addressed directly, but the furrow of his brow is resolute as he says, “I want a cut.”

“That’s fair.” Gladio nods. “What percentage?”

“F-fifty percent.”

“No-go,” Gladio says in a neutral tone. “You died for this, so I’ll give you forty percent, but it’s still my case. And Ignis may have fucked up, but we couldn’t have gotten here without him. So it’ll be forty-thirty-thirty, and you still walk away with the biggest cut. Sound good?”

“Y-yeah,” Prompto says. Ignis gets the feeling he wasn’t prepared to actually negotiate, and Ignis is just relieved Gladio is his employer and not a sleazier man. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Great, let’s shake on it,” he puts out a hand.

Prompto, in all his good graces, only flinches a little at what must be a sticky and unpleasant sensation as Gladio’s pie-stained fingers wrap around his to give him a hearty handshake. Even from across the table, Ignis can see the remnants of blueberry filling smeared all over Prompto’s hand as Gladio pulls away, but Gladio himself doesn’t seem to be aware of the damage he’s done.

“We’re good, then,” Gladio slouches back, business conducting mode over and fully drunk again. He starts scooting out of the booth - bumping into Prompto in the process - and gets up with his pie in one sticky hand. “I’m gonna go home, eat this pie and knock the fuck out. You guys come by my office tomorrow morning and we’ll get started on that case of yours, Prompto.”

They all say a series of hushed goodnights and goodbyes, then Prompto wipes the stickiness from his hand and asks Noctis for his phone. As he types away, Ignis thinks he’s done talking for the night, that maybe he really did only want to deliver that ultimatum and now they’re back to not talking.

But then Prompto finally says, “And Ignis?”

“Yes?” he says, not ashamed at how relieved he sounds.

“You wanted to know if there was something you could do to apologize?” Ignis nods, then Prompto’s turning Noct’s screen around and he can see that it’s pulled up to the picture of a little pomeranian on the website of some kennel. “Start by adopting that dog.”

* * *

The facts were these.

Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and five days old, occupational baker, contractual private investigator’s assistant and soon-to-be dog father - wakes up with a hangover and a singular drive to make his way to the animal shelter.

“Your owner had good taste, at least,” he murmurs to the little dog as she pants and keeps pace with him. “Basil is a very versatile spice and it has a lovely aroma. You could do much worse for namesakes.”

Basil, who turned out to be a delightful little thing with a tastefully black and tan coat and very well defined eyebrows, gives him a wheeze and a wiggle as they wait to cross the intersection to Gladio’s office in order to rendezvous with Noctis and Prompto.

Noctis, the good friend that he was, had sent him a few updates throughout the night and had even woken up as early as ten in the morning to send Ignis a text that he and Prompto would head to Gladio’s after brunch. So he’s not surprised to find them already there when he opens the door, letting Basil through first before stepping in himself.

“Oh,” Prompto gasps, grin rapidly brightening his face as Basil snorts at each of them in greeting. “You actually adopted the dog!”

“Well, I try to keep my promises,” Ignis says.

He doesn’t want to dwell on the delighted surprise in Prompto’s expression, the sort that suggests that Prompto’s so used to people breaking their promises with him that he’s stopped expecting anything, so he focuses on the fact that Prompto’s still wearing the gray cardigan instead.

“Did you have to bring it  _here?”_  Gladio grumbles, but it’s most likely because Basil has started sniffing at his pant leg and his fingers stiffen around the sandwich in his hands.

“I’m afraid I had to,” he says, calling Basil over with a few snaps of his fingers. “I couldn’t very well leave Basil here to her own devices.”

“Her name is _Basil?”_  Prompto wheezes and she diverts her attention to him at the sound of her name, waddling over to sniff at his outstretched palm.

“You gonna help us solve a murder, girl?” Noctis coos, squatting down next to her to scratch under her chin.

“Are  _you_  gonna help us solve a murder, Prompto?” Gladio cuts in sternly, but Ignis doesn’t miss the way he’s tearing a piece of bread from the corner of his sandwich. “Or are we trying to get into the dog-sitting business?”

“R-right,” Prompto stutters and pulls himself back into the chair. “Right, so. What did you want to know?”

Gladio puts his sandwich down, leaning in towards Prompto with both elbows on the table. It’s a perfectly executed move from a Hollywood detective film, save for the subtle bump that shoves the torn bread corner off the table and into Basil’s eye line. Gladio looks pleased as she totters over to feast on it.

“So tell me: a young guy like you, lives with his parents, part-time mechanic with five payments left on a motorcycle,” Ignis blinks at the information, looking to Prompto only to see him nod with earnestness. A motorcycle? It seems there’s still quite a lot he’s yet to learn about Prompto. “Where’d you get the spare change for a luxury cruise?”

Prompto winces. “You’re really cutting right to the point here, huh?”

“I’m a private investigator,” Gladio offers, but he’s leaning in closer in the way he does when he knows he’s onto something. “So where’d you get the money?”

“I, er, ok. Ok.” His eyes flick around to each person before settling on Ignis. “Just don’t get mad.”

“Prompto,” Ignis says as gently as he can in spite of the anxiety rising in the pit of his stomach. “What did you do?”

“N-nothing bad,” Prompto flinches again. “I mean, I don’t think it was anything bad. B-but I really didn’t- I was stupid, ok?”

“What kind of stupid?” Gladio presses.

Prompto gulps audibly. “There’s this travel agency near the garage where I work. The guy who runs it, he said he’d pay for my trip if I just brought these two tonberry statues to give to someone at our destination.”

Everyone in the room lets out some kind of breath. Gladio shakes his head. “Kid…”

“He said they weren’t worth anything! He was  _very_  clear that they only had sentimental value!” Prompto insists, but the shaking of his voice suggests that he knows the mistake he made. He lets out a tired sigh. “Look, I said I was stupid. I just- I had a  _shitty_  life, ok? Everything felt like a dead-end and I was so  _sick_  of it. I just wanted to get away for a bit, wanted to see the world and all that. I didn’t ask questions because I didn’t want to think about it. I was stupid.”

“Well, I’d say you paid your dues already,” Ignis offers with a tentative smile that Prompto returns with a wobbling one of his own. “And you’re hardly to blame for wanting a little something better out of life.”

Gladio grumbles something, then he’s pulling a familiar leather notebook out from a deskside cabinet.

“So this guy, he’s got regular business hours?” Prompto nods. “Let’s pay a visit, then.”

* * *

“Well, this certainly wasn’t what I was expecting,” Ignis says.

“O-oh man, is he-?” Prompto says.

“Dead. Recent, by the looks of it,” Gladio says.

“Pah!” Basil says.

The facts were these.

Dino Ghiranze was a man with his hands in many pies, so to speak. He was careful and attentive in organizing the preparation, baking and shipping of these metaphorical pies and had seen a great increase in wealth in a short amount of time, as evidenced by his recently gold-plated name tag.

Unfortunately, one of the consequences of having hands in many pies is having just as many competitors, and one of them seems to have a penchant for strangling people with plastic bags.

“Ignis.” Gladio waves him over as he pulls the plastic bag from over Dino’s head. “Do your thing.”

“Right,” Ignis huffs, handing Basil off to Noctis.

He sets the timer on his watch as Prompto settles in the chair across from Dino with a resolute set to his brow.

“Is that how I looked?” He grimaces.  _“God,_ that’s embarrassing.”

“Stay focused, Prompto,” Gladio scolds, and Ignis sets his fingers tentatively on Dino’s left hand.

He awakens as if from sleep. Then, noticing his company, leans forward amicably on his marble desk.

“What can I do for- Oh, Prompto! What a surprise! Thought I might see you here, kid!” he reaches over to give Prompto a hearty slap on the shoulder. “So, what is this? Up top or down low.”

“Er,” Prompto stutters, blinking at Ignis. “The middle? Well, whatever it is, Dino, we don’t have long to talk.”

“Does everyone get to talk?” Dino asks, eyes shifting from person to person. “Or is this like, an unfinished business thing?”

Prompto narrows his eyes. “You  _knew_  this was going to happen.”

“I mean, I knew  _something_  was gonna happen,” Dino shrugs. He starts to right the things on his desk that he must have toppled while being strangled to death. “Didn’t know what, exactly, but if it had been a safe trip, let’s just say I would have gone myself. The tropics are _beautiful_  this time of year.”

“Y-you-” Prompto stutters.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that, kiddo. I tried to warn you, y’know.” Prompto’s glare deepens. “What? I did! It was in the liability waiver. Didn’t anyone tell you to read those things?”

“It was in the- Dino, you  _mother_ -”

“Prompto,” Gladio warns, gently pushing Prompto’s rolling chair out of the way. “Mr. Ghiranze-”

“Please, it’s Dino! Mr. Ghiranze is my father.”

“Dino,” Gladio says, tone edging on impatience. “Do you know who killed you and Prompto?”

“Can’t say,” he says, as casual as if he’s discussing the weather. “Real professional, that guy. Came up from behind, bag over the head. He even had gloves! Couldn’t have gotten an ID even if I tried.”

“You said he’s a professional. The hired kind?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Got a lot of people in my business, don’t know which one’s finally decided to do something about the competition. I can tell you this, though: those little tonberries would have made someone very,  _very_  rich, very,  _very_  quick. Can’t blame a guy for being an opportunist.”

Gladio huffs. “Another dead end.”

“So, can I interest any of you boys in-?” he doesn’t get the chance to finish before his head drops to the table with an audible thud.

“S-sorry,” Ignis says softly as he pulls his hand out from under Dino’s now lifeless body ten full seconds before the deadline. “I was getting nervous. It’s just, you’re all in here, and-”

“You’re fine,” Gladio mutters off-handedly. He’s got his brow drawn with intense concentration, the way Ignis has only seen a handful of times. “Prompto?”

“Y-yeah?” Prompto straightens under the severity of his tone.

“How did you die? _Exactly.”_

“Well,” he frowns, both hands clenched on his knees as one bounces with a rapidly increasing tempo. Ignis wishes he could hold one of his hands, but, well, he’d just held Dino’s and the results were right in front of him. “I was trying to get a picture on the top deck, so I was kind of distracted, and someone came up behind me and put a bag over my head. That’s- That’s all I can remember, I’m sorry.”

Gladio lets out a thoughtful huff. “If they’d gotten what they wanted from you, they wouldn’t have killed Dino…”

“If they had…” Prompto frowns again, mouth straightening to a tight line. “Oh! My room key! I dropped my room key in the ocean! I remember! I was kind of freaking out about it, so I was taking pictures to calm down before I went to the front lobby for a new one. But then what happened  _happened_  and-”

“And if he didn’t have your room key,” Ignis says, latching onto the train of thought. “He couldn’t have gotten into your room for the tonberries.”

“Yeah!” Prompto says with a grin, clearly excited by this development. But then just as quickly, his face falls. “Uh, guys? Where do they send your stuff when you die on a boat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH? WOOPS?? - Prompto Argentum
> 
> if you'd like to know what i think basil looks like! [here she is!](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/f7/f1/8d/f7f18d3f67557c8c44b499fac070f706--anjing-pomeranian-pomeranian-puppy.jpg)
> 
> as usual, leave me a comment or [give me a little yell](http://brosura.tumblr.com/ask) on [me tumblr](http://brosura.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> thanks for the read! last part is a' comin up!


	4. re-planting daisies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on this episode:  
> cid: u city kids and ur plastic bags. back in my day we'd challenge each other to pistol duels.

“This isn’t our old neighborhood,” Ignis observes, as they all pull up to the Hammerhead garage in Gladio’s little electric car.

The facts are these.

The Hammerhead garage, owned by a certain Cid Sophiar, is housed in the remnants of an old small aircraft hangar. For years, local elitists in the community have insisted that the giant hammerhead shark - a grand old thing Cid had built on top of the garage as soon as he’d come across enough scrap metal - be removed to avoid lowering property values. And for years, Cid Sophiar has told them, in no uncertain terms, to _“shove off, ya nasty city rats.”_

At any rate, it’s become something of an establishment for car people and mechanics alike, and it’s garnered the reputation as the place in town to go for a tune-up or an upgrade. That’s what had drawn a young Prompto in after he’d taken his father’s car into the shop for him. What had prompted him to take his first and last job as an apprentice to the head mechanic in the shop.

“Y-yeah,” Prompto stutters. Basil is sitting in his lap, a pre-emptive measure since they’ll be keeping each other company while Ignis, Gladio and Noctis talk to Prompto’s old co-workers. “I sort of listed my boss in my emergency contacts? I don’t know, I didn’t really want my parents to know where I was going, and I was worried the company would send them mail, so I put my workplace as my permanent address.”

“Makes sense,” Noctis says. He’s been a remarkably calming presence in all this, and an excellent sport to sit through a murder investigation that he had no reason to be invested in. Ignis owes him as many tarts as he wants.

“Um,” Prompto starts, bouncing a leg nervously as they all move to exit the vehicle. Basil’s tongue flops erratically out of her mouth. “Could you guys like, send a signal or something? If they’re ok?”

“I’ll leave my phone with you,” Noctis says, already removing it from his pocket. “Ignis’ll text you with an update.”

Prompto gives him a grateful nod and a nervous little smile as he takes the phone, then they’re heading out of the car and pushing open the front doors to the garage.

“So,” Noctis draws out the syllable in the buzzing silence of the lobby. “What happens if the murderer is like… there.”

“Let me worry about that,” Gladio says, rolling his shoulders. “Just try not to get in the way.”

“Of what?” Ignis snorts. “Your ego?”

“Nice try, Ignis.” He sends him a cocksure grin. “You don’t see the take-down so I don’t blame you, but I’ve wrestled my fair share of perps. Guy coming from behind? Plastic bag? Not a lot of confidence there. I’m sure I could beat him hand to hand.”

“Oh man,” Noctis deadpans. “Ignis, let’s get out of the way. It’s his ego.”

“Very funny,” Gladio says with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, what’s the joke?” comes a high-pitched and smooth voice in a southern drawl as a young woman steps behind the counter with a friendly smile.

Ignis instantly recognizes her as the young woman from the funeral. Only this time, instead of her Sunday Best, she’s wearing a set of coveralls that are zipped down to the waist, fastened there with a knot tied with her sleeves. And she’s covered in grease, even the t-shirt underneath the coveralls and her baseball cap weren’t spared. Even so, she’s very pretty, so Ignis isn’t surprised when Noctis balks and shrinks subtly behind him. He never was good at meeting new people, much less new  _attractive_  people.  

But Gladio has no such qualms. He’s leaning over the counter like he’s an old friend, all charm. “Nothing worth repeating, ma’am.”

“Aw, shucks. Ain’t no need for all that fancy business. You can call me Cindy, darlin’.” She gives them a wink. Ignis can feel Noct’s panic rising behind him. “What can I do for you boys today? Something with your car need fixin’?”

“No car trouble today, Cindy.” Gladio says with an amicable smile. “My name’s Gladio, and I’m actually a private investigator. These two are my, ah, assistants. We’re currently looking into the death of a Prompto Argentum.” The name scarcely leaves Gladio’s mouth before Cindy’s entire face falls. “Take it you knew him?”

“Yeah,” Cindy says, taking off her cap to run a hand through her hair. “Yeah, I knew him.”

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” Gladio asks, gentle. He waits for Cindy to nod before continuing. “He listed this garage as his last workplace, and we were hoping to speak to his boss. That you?”

“Not exactly.” Cindy bites her lip, looking thoughtful. It occurs to Ignis that Prompto might have picked up the habit from her. “Look boys, why don’t you come to the back office with me? I reckon whatever I can’t answer, Paw Paw’ll be able to. He runs the place.”

She gestures for them to follow her behind a closed door, then winces as if remembering something. “Just- Just let me do the talking first, alright?”

“Is he mean?” Noctis whispers, looking nervous. “Ask Prompto if he’s mean.”

_Cindy ok._  Ignis texts, dutifully. _Is boss mean?_

_Very mean._  Prompto responds. Then there’s a picture of Basil.  _For support._

* * *

“Yeah, I knew Prompto.” Cid says with that southern drawl, sipping lazily at a cup of coffee that they’d all seen him pour whiskey into. If he wasn’t sure before, Ignis knows now that it’s Cid and Cindy that gave Prompto the habit of switching to the accent. “One of my older staff, quick with his hands. For a smart kid, he sure was a real idiot.”

_“Paw Paw,”_  Cindy hisses. She gives them an apologetic look. “Paw Paw took him on as an apprentice when he was just a little thing. Couldn’t have been more than seventeen. He didn’t talk about it much, but we knew his parents didn’t pay him much mind, so we tried to make him feel like he was family here.” She sighs. “He was a real sweet thing. Didn’t deserve to go the way he did.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Gladio says with a cold detachment that might have seemed professional if Ignis didn’t know that it was merely a product of the ‘real sweet thing’ in question currently sitting in his car with a very small dog. He leans forward, fingers steepled over his own mug, filled with only coffee. “We’ll try to get out of your hair as soon as possible, but could you answer a few of our questions?”

“Shoot.” Cid gives them a half-hearted wave and takes another long sip from the mug.

“Right, could you tell us if you noticed anything strange about Prompto before the trip? Like, was he behaving strangely or was someone asking questions about him?”

“Can’t say I did,” Cindy answers. “He’d been jittery to be sure, but he seemed more excited than anything. Wanted to know what it was like to travel and all that, but Paw Paw and I don’t leave the garage much ourselves.”

“And he didn’t have a stalker or nothin’, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cid grumbles. “Real shy boy, stayed out of the spotlight. Took years for him to warm to me and Cindy. Woulda noticed if someone came round askin’ for him. Hell, half this garage woulda noticed.”

“Alright,” Gladio says after a pause. He’s making a show of jotting down notes, but from Ignis’ perspective, he can tell they’re just chicken scratches. “How about after the trip? Anything strange happen around the garage recently? Anyone acting strangely?”

Cindy purses her lips. “Hm, couldn’t say. Why do you ask?”

“We’re just pursuing the possibility that the murderer might have been personally connected to him.”

“Well, you can quit pursuin’,” Cid says with finality. “I know my people, none of them would do anything as sinister as you’re implying, city slicker.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Gladio smirks. “Last question, and we’ll be on our way. I understand he’d listed you as his place of residence, and the cruise ship might have sent you his personal effects.”

“Yeah,” Cindy sighs. “Yeah, we got ‘em.”

Gladio leans forward, grin almost predatory. “Mind if we take a look?”

* * *

“Well,” Noctis chuckles. “Those are definitely tonberries.”

“That they are,” Ignis says, turning the tacky plastic tonberry around in his hand. They’re heavy, but he’s not sure if it’s real or the imagined weight of knowing Prompto lost his life for these little things.

“So, what do we do now?” Noctis asks, fiddling with his own tonberry.

“We leave them,” Gladio says.

“Excuse me?” Ignis finds he can’t sound affronted _enough._ “Are you suggesting we continue to put Prompto’s friends, his _family_  by the sounds of it, at risk?”

“They’re at risk whether or not we take the things,” Gladio growls, crossing his arms. “The guy probably went through Dino’s papers and came to the same conclusion as us. The fact that Cid and Cindy haven’t noticed anything says he just hasn’t acted yet. We take them and he gets here and can’t find them? Doesn’t look good for Cid and Cindy.”

Cid and Cindy who, they’d since learned, live in a small attachment off the side of the garage. Loathe as he is to admit it, Gladio does have a point.

“So what?” Noctis asks for the both of them. “We just let him take them?”

“We leave them,” Gladio explains, poking a tonberry at them in a way that might have looked dramatic and inspired if it weren’t for the fact that it was a  _tonberry._ “And then we wait.”

* * *

The facts are these.

Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and five days old, veteran baker, practiced private investigator’s assistant and novice stake-out participant - wishes he’d charged his cell phone.

There’s only so much tenseness stretched between the silences he can take, after all. And with Noctis and Gladio on the other side of the garage - Noctis had split up the groups with a sly look to Ignis - there’s no one else to direct his attention towards.

Well, there’s Basil. But Basil - at a scant 5.5 pounds - is too light to disturb the eggshells they’re currently treading on, and she walks between Ignis and Prompto’s laps in Gladio’s car unaffected.

“So,” Prompto finally says. “Wanna, er, wanna talk about it?”

“About what?”

“The  _‘it’s not an unfamiliar feeling’_  thing,” Prompto explains. He switches into an exaggeration of Ignis’ accent for part of it, and Ignis finds himself equal parts charmed and offended. “Wanna talk about it?”

It’s not something Ignis was prepared to talk about, he’d been able to put off the memory of his mother and Prompto’s father for this far. But, he can’t lie to Prompto, not anymore. Still, he’s afraid to use the details. “I made a mistake when I was younger, when I first learned about my powers. I lost people who were very dear to me and I knew it was all my fault. I thought I was a monster, that I didn’t deserve anyone’s kindness. If Noctis hadn’t been a nosy little boy so intent on befriending me, I’m not certain where I’d be today, to be honest.”

Prompto lets out a hum, curling up in the seat to hug Basil, who has settled in his lap.

“You’re not,” he says after some time. His fingers curl and uncurl in Basil’s fur, who pants obligingly. “You’re not some monster. You know that, right?”

“Some days more than others,” Ignis admits with a rueful smile.

Prompto frowns. “I mean, I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I know I kind of yelled at you.”

“You were right to. Even it was a lie of omission, I still lied to you and I kept making excuses to lie to you. You deserved to know the complete circumstances of your, er,  _revival.”_

“Yeah, yeah I mean you’re right about that, but I didn’t have to say all that shit about not wanting to talk to you.” Prompto turns to give him a bashful little smile. “To be honest, I was really overwhelmed and I just didn’t want you to see me cry. That would have been really uncool.”

“I understand the desire for privacy, but rest assured I think crying’s a perfectly natural response. Had our positions been reversed, I would have cried at the outset,” Ignis reassures.

“Well, yeah maybe, but you’ve got that perfectly chiseled face and all that,” Prompto says. Ignis waits for him to stutter and blush, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps  _going._  “Hell, you probably look  _great_  when you cry! All dramatic and noble. Totally unfair, because I just get all red and splotchy. It’s very unattractive.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I want to see you cry anytime soon.” Ignis laughs. “But I think you’re perfectly attractive, no matter the situation.”

Prompto scrunches his nose. “There’s a word for that. Starts with an N.”

“Are you suggesting I’m a necrophile?”

“Yeah, that. And I mean, you are flirting with a dead guy,” Prompto says, but he’s smiling as he says it.

And it’s that warm, longing smile Ignis didn’t think he’d see again, one that pulls at Ignis’ own lips until he’s smiling in return. Suddenly they’re both children again, back in that tree at sunset. Only this time, Prompto is looking at him with the same wonder that must have been written on Ignis’ face that day. Ignis wishes this was some fantasy land, he wishes he could lean in the way he wants, give Prompto a kiss the way he wants.

But once again, Ignis’ wish wasn’t granted. This wasn’t a fantasy land. It was a stake-out.

And they’d just missed their murderer.

* * *

The facts were these.

The man that breaks into Hammerhead in the dead of night has made a substantial name for himself by having no one know his name. He’s mysterious, dresses in all black, takes cash only, and was promised a very hefty sum from one  _Izunia, A._  for retrieving a pair of plastic tonberries.  _Extreme sentimental value,_ he’d been told. 

This has resulted in more murders than he’d initially planned, but he’s not one to complain. The plastic bags that rest in his back pocket are the closest thing he has to a signature, and it’s unfair that he’s so rarely appreciated for his work.

It seems there’s no need for his special methods today, though, because he makes it through the garage undetected. After a moment of searching, he finds the tonberries in a suitcase next to the familiar camera of the boy he’d murdered on the cruise ship. Secretly, he’s glad it seems intact. It would have been a shame to break such a nice camera.

He’s just congratulating himself on a job well done after no end of inconveniences when a flashlight draws his attention.

“Put the tonberries down,” a gruff voice whispers.

He does  _not_ put the tonberries down. 

No, he throws the closest article of clothing he can find from the suitcase at the shine of the flashlight and _runs_. He can hear a muffled curse as the gruff-voiced man makes chase, but neither of them make it very far before he’s colliding with two more people.

“-mpto!” comes an alarmed cry, but he pays it no mind as he catches the smaller one around the throat. For now, at the very least, the body in front of him will shield him if his pursuers have guns and value their friends.

“Don’t move!” he growls, fumbling in his pocket for his knife, but as he fumbles, he finds himself crinkling the plastic bag on accident.

“Oh,  _fuck_  no,” his hostage growls. “Not again.”

Then he’s being flipped, dropped ignobly on the ground for someone as professional as him. This won’t do, naturally, so he grabs his hostage-turned-assailant’s hand and kicks at his midsection, flipping him in turn onto the ground and pinning him there by his throat.

In the dim light of the garage, he just makes out the face of the man, only to find it eerily, eerily familiar.

“Didn’t I kill you?” he asks, incredulous.

But that’s all he gets to ask because the lights flicker on to reveal the scene. There’s him, the nameless man on an errand from a mysterious  _Izunia, A._ halfway through strangling what should have been a dead man on the ground. And then there’s three men frozen in place and scattered about the room, each looking on with some kind of horror at the man in the doorway.

And then there’s the man in the doorway.

“Oughtta read the sign, boys,” Cid Sophiar says, cocking his gun. “We’re closed.”

And that is how Cid Sophiar, age sixty-two, shoots Prompto’s would-be second-time killer dead in the Hammerhead Garage.

* * *

“You sure your friend is ok?” Cid grumbles, pouring more whiskey into his whiskey. “Looked to be in a real bad situation when I walked in.”

They’re all sat in the office that Gladio had questioned Cid and Cindy in, trying to ignore the dead body in the other room, evidence that their stake-out had been… too active. 

Distantly, they can hear Basil barking from the car that Ignis and Prompto had fled from in haste when they’d seen Gladio’s shaky flashlight signal from the opposite side of the garage before they’d walked directly into a short-lived hostage situation.

By some miracle, Prompto had the sense to look away when Cid had turned the lights on, and Noctis had the foresight to grab one of the shirts from Prompto’s suitcase and throw it over his face when their culprit rolled, lifeless, off his body.

“He’s fine, sir,” Ignis says, as Prompto - t-shirt wrapped around his head- frantically gestures with his hands a message that he must hope comes off as  _‘Yeah, really fine!’_ “He’s, ah, he’s just very shy to be seen by other people. This whole experience was very… _trying,_  as you can imagine.”

“I can imagine just fine,” Cid says with a laugh, seeming more charmed than anything by Prompto’s strange behavior. “That big old boy was lookin’ right at you, wasn’t he? Taught him not to trespass in a mechanic’s garage, though, I sure did.”

“That you did,” Gladio chuckles. 

Cid takes another sip from his mug, looking thoughtful. “You really think that’s the little asshole that killed Prompto?”

“I strongly believe it, sir,” Gladio says, and Ignis doesn't miss the way Prompto clenches his fists on his lap in response. “I’ll be sure to inform the police so you can collect the reward.”

“Reward was shootin’ that bastard dead,” Cid grumbles. “Well, I reckon I’m not gonna complain about some extra gil, either.”

Noctis, as if sensing Prompto’s anxiety, asks, “Your granddaughter ok?”

“Oh, Cindy’s just fine.” Ignis can see Prompto visibly relax next to him. “Out on the town with her girl. Reckon she’ll get a surprise out of watchin’ the cops draggin’ a body out of the ol’ garage, though.” Cid turns to Prompto, but Prompto can’t tense because, again, he can’t see it. “You oughtta head out then, I reckon. Can’t imagine it’s much better gettin’ gawked at by a bunch of boys in blue. I'm sure me and your boys can come up with something that'll leave you out of it.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Noctis says, getting up. He pulls Prompto up by the hand and starts to lead him out of the room, pausing only to give Ignis a reassuring look. “We’ll meet you guys at home.”

And they’re gone just like that. The three remaining men in the room sit in companionable silence until the police arrive, broken only when Gladio curses.

“When did that little brat steal my keys?”

* * *

The facts are these.

Noct’s apartment is a spacious penthouse loft on the top floor of one of the only high-rises of the small town they live in. It includes such features as a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a small balcony with several struggling houseplants that offers a perfect view of the city. As such, it’s the perfect place to get a breath of fresh air after a particularly long talk with the police, and the perfect place for a dramatic conversation.

“So,” Prompto says, sliding down to sit next to where Ignis is leaning against the railing of Noct’s balcony. He slips two bare feet between the bars of the balcony to kick them over the expanse. Basil waddles to his side to shove her face between the bars. “Bummer about the reward, huh?”

“Well, Cid seems to have some ideas on how to spend the money.” Ideas, of course, that he’d been sure to outline to Gladio and Ignis in the thirty minutes it had taken for the police to show up.

“I’m glad,” Prompto smiles. “He’s a grumpy old guy, but he’s nice. He deserves some cash.”

“I’m inclined to agree, but I’m also not above wishing to see some of that reward money.”

“Same,” Prompto laughs. Then he tenses, ever so slightly as he continues. “I was kind of hoping to pay for that funeral director’s, well, funeral.”

“Ah,” is all Ignis can think to say.

There’s a pause where the only things that they can hear are the quiet sounds of the restless town beneath and Basil’s quiet pants.

Then Prompto laughs. “Think they give employee discounts for funerals?”

Ignis gives him a fond smile that Prompto returns, then he’s looking out over the city again, fingers coming to tangle in Basil’s fur.

“Y’know, to be honest, when I found out that guy died for me, I felt really guilty,” he admits in a soft voice. “But it wasn’t because I thought I should trade my life back for his or anything. It was- Well, I just scared myself because I was so  _relieved._  It felt so selfish, but he was like, sixty or something, and I remember thinking  _‘at least it wasn’t a kid,’_  like somehow that made it better. And I was happy to be alive or whatever, but it was just… so much at once and everything was so  _fucked_  up. It’s fucked up, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s ‘fucked up’ to be happy to be alive,” Ignis answers. “I think that’s just how it is.”

“Yeah,” Prompto breathes. “Yeah, maybe. Either way, I was hoping I could get rid of the guilt by paying for this dude’s funeral, but I guess that’s out of the cards.” He looks to Ignis with a hopeful expression. “Was he really that much of a dirtbag?”

“Dirtiest of the bags,” Ignis says. “Absolute scum.”

“Wow, what happened to ‘don’t speak ill of the dead?’” Prompto laughs.

“Well, I’m sure the rules can be suspended for a man who regularly _stole_ from the dead.”

“Oh, wow, he really _was_ a scumbag.” Prompto blinks. “I thought you guys were just trying to comfort me.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Ignis says, casually.

But Prompto turns to him with a knowing look in his eye. “Really?”

“What are you trying to imply?”

“Nothing,” Prompto laughs. “Nothing, I just. I figured it out, you know. What you were talking about in the car. My dad, that was you, right?”

“Er,” Ignis chokes.

“No, it’s alright, it’s alright,” Prompto reassures. “I’m not mad about it, I don’t blame you. I just wanted to tell you that.” Prompto pulls his feet from off the edge and puts Basil in his lap, curling up into a little ball around her. “My dad, well, he was kind of an asshole, when I think about it. Yelled a lot, drank a lot. Never hit me, but I wasn’t really around for him to try. Y’know, the reason why it seemed like I was outside all the time was because I pretty much  _was._  I’d spend as much time out of the house as possible just to avoid him. So, you can quit beating yourself up about that.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I was a kid and it was scary being alone, but I think my life would have been a lot worse if I stayed in that place.”

“Prompto,” Ignis chuckles something that’s at once solemn and fond, caught between his sadness at the pain in Prompto’s life and the joy at seeing him finally wanting something for himself. “You  _died.”_

“Yeah, but I got to solve my own murder!” he says with a grin, honest and bright. “I mean, how cool is that?”

They both laugh at that, then Prompto’s looking at him with that thoughtful, longing expression. After a moment, he hums and uncurls himself to stand up in front of Ignis.

“Hey Iggy?” he asks, reaching into his back pocket to produce a plastic take-out bag.  _Have a nice day!_  it says in cheerful letters. “Mind doing me a favor and putting this bag over your head?”

“Plan on killing me?” Ignis jokes, but he’s taken the bag and is pulling it over his head regardless. “I suppose that’s karmic justice, in a roundabout sort of way.”

He doesn’t quite hear Prompto’s response over the crinkle of the bag, then suddenly the plastic is being stretched over his face and for a moment Ignis thinks,  _‘ah, he really is trying to kill me.’_ But then warm hands come to cup around his cheeks and there’s a gentle press against his lips and Ignis can’t think anything at all.

It’s a chaste kiss, necessitated by the plastic bag, and only a moment, but it’s more than Ignis could have imagined. Prompto, it seems, was the imaginative one between the two of them. It’s not his first kiss, not even his second, but it’s the first time he’s kissed someone and imagined a future instead of only the worst case scenarios. It’s the first time he didn’t wish anything was different.

But it’s not long, and he’s left standing dumbstruck in the aftermath as Prompto tugs off the bag and fumbles with it in his hands, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

“I was kissing this big smiley face, so that was a little weird,” he laughs, a little nervous and a little breathless, as he stretches the bag out in his hands. He slips a hand inside. “And  _you_ used tongue! Look at you, Iggy!”

“I, er, I was caught up in the moment.” Ignis stutters out a laugh of his own.

“Careful,” Prompto teases. “Last time you were caught up in the moment, you killed a guy.”

“Hey!” Noctis cuts in abruptly, slapping a hand against the sliding glass door, making the both of them jump. “If you two are done flirting, I’ve got something to show you.”

* * *

“How’d you manage to steal those?” Gladio says, incredulous.

Those being the tonberry statues that Noctis had, apparently, lifted while leading Prompto out of the garage.

“We all have our vices,” he says, in lieu of a real answer. They’ll have to have a talk later, but that can wait because Noctis turns to Prompto, who’s turning one of them over in his hand and says, “Wanna do the honors?”

Prompto grins and raises the thing above his head. “This is for getting me murdered!”

The cheap plastic comes away with a crack to reveal the telltale glimmer of pure gold, the trait that’s likely responsible for the unexpected heaviness of the statues and the fact that someone had been willing to kill for them. This means nothing to Basil, who approaches the statue to lick at it.

“’They’ll make you very, _very_ rich,’” Prompto breathes, remembering Dino’s words.

“Very, very quick,” Gladio finishes, testing the weight of one of the statues in his hand.

“Speak for yourselves,” Noctis shrugs. “I’m already rich.”

* * *

The facts are these.

Ignis Scientia - twenty two years, eleven months, three weeks and five days old, full-time baker, part-time private investigator’s assistant and host/co-star of a recently developing series of instructional cooking videos titled _Baking with Basil_ \- is about to have the best birthday of his life.

The reason for this being the man curled up on Noct’s couch. Prompto Argentum - recently re-raised freelance photographer, roommate (of Noct’s) and boyfriend (of Ignis) - isn’t doing anything in particular. He’s just existing, just breathing, and to reiterate, he’s Ignis’ boyfriend. And it’s the most wondrous thing Ignis could have hoped for. There’s nothing better he could have imagined in twenty-two years, eleven months, three weeks and five days.

“What are you staring at?” Prompto says, pushing his glasses farther up his face.

“Nothing,” Ignis gives him a fond smile. “I just like to look at you.”

“That’s gross,” Prompto says, scrunching up his nose. But he’s grinning regardless. “Noctis, hold my boyfriend’s hand.”

Noctis, who’s been mercifully accommodating of Prompto and Ignis’ peculiar circumstances, merely makes a noncommittal and flops out a hand for Ignis to hold, texting with the other.

“So, wanna take a trip for your birthday?” Prompto says with a smile.

“I’m not averse to the idea,” Ignis says, but that’s entirely an understatement. He’d go anywhere with Prompto, at this point. “What did you have in mind?”

Prompto’s grin turns mischievous. “Definitely not a cruise ship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all for now folks!! i may pursue this au in the future (bc of that sneaky _izunia, a._ ) but i've got to get back to my promnis big bang submission! look forward 2 that it's a netflixcastylvania au bc all i'm capable of, apparently, is obscure promnis aus
> 
> as usual, leave me a comment or [give me a little yell](http://brosura.tumblr.com/ask) on [me tumblr](http://brosura.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> thanks for the read! and for tolerating me zoomin in out of nowhere, dropping a 15k fic, and then bein reabsorbed into the abyss!!! y'all have been great!


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